dactylology?” she’d asked Mrs. Goodchild once, all bright and beaming — she’d looked up the word for finger language especially — and the use of five syllables had briefly defeated Mrs. Albert Comstock’s tittering toady. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she didn’t know the word, and hadn’t wanted to give an answer until she knew what the word meant. After a pause — eyes glazing, fingers still tangled in complex knots — she employed the Mrs. Albert Comstock technique of completely ignoring the question and changing the subject. She also made use of vigorously soggy harrumphing. She certainly modeled her methods on those of her like-minded mentor.
Mr. Pinkerton would never have hired a deaf servant. That was the gist of what they were saying. Things would have been very different if Mr. Pinkerton were still alive. Mrs. Pinkerton always seemed to choose servants for their novelty value. Mr. Pinkerton had been far more sensible. He, like them, had had certain standards.
Though there had been that darkie girl.
Snigger.
“A hkl.”
“A hkl.”
Their voices had become quieter now, a barely audible bottom-line whisper, the tiniest of tiny lettering — just above
Printed by Charles Gouvernear & Nephew, New York —
unfamiliar words that Mr. Brczin hardly ever heard in his empire of the shortsighted. His eyes filled with nostalgic tears. They were speaking familiar words of greeting from his long-lost homeland —
May your balalaika always be well polished! How brightly the tracks of the troika gleam in the light of the morning sun! —
words that he had not heard spoken for half a century, hearing them only in memory.
“Gracious!” Mrs. Albert Comstock effortlessly switched to English. Her voice rose, in the tone of someone fearlessly giving voice to universal truths that must not be denied utterance. You couldn’t stop her talking. You could never stop her talking. Mrs. Albert Comstock said what had to be said. “My word! If I might be permitted! Darkie!”
“Whatdoyoumacallit?” Mrs. Goodchild agreed. “Thingamajig! Whatsit? Darkie!” (Mrs. Goodchild varied her exclamation points with the occasional question mark.)
Sometimes they appeared to spend entire afternoons of conversation in employing no other words but these, bound by the rules of some strict order. You could rely on Mrs. Albert Comstock and Mrs. Goodchild for intellectual stimulation.
There was no sound from Mama’s or Ben’s rooms.
This afternoon, her brother would be leaving for Japan.
12
She looked down the long final flight of stairs into the hall, and saw Annie, the little servant girl she had last seen twenty-five years ago.
These things happened without any warning.
Mrs. Alexander Diddecott talked with the dead every Tuesday at a house in Harlem, from seven to eight-thirty, her dead restricted to a certain place, and to certain hours, as if they lived in a museum. Alice seemed to see them at all times, and in all places. The memories were vivid, happening in front of her for the first time. Contrariwise, when real things happened they sometimes felt like something being remembered, a memory of something once read a long time ago, not as if they were happening for the first time then. As she drew nearer, she recognized the moment she was remembering. She had been ten years old. It was nothing special, and yet she had remembered it, as she remembered — with Emily Dickinson — a certain slant of light, or a tree against the sky, looking down at her feet on a beach, a red parasol.
She was not aware of Annie at first.
It was a summer morning, very early, and the hall was suffused by a red glow. In the evening it was green, blue, an underwater color. The hall was tiled, and sounds were sharper there — the heels of boots and the tips of umbrellas and walking sticks click-clicked, dresses swished and hissed, beaded braiding rattled like dogs’ claws — echoes close, enclosed. There were patterns on the tiles. No one
Mr. Pinkerton would never have hired a deaf servant. That was the gist of what they were saying. Things would have been very different if Mr. Pinkerton were still alive. Mrs. Pinkerton always seemed to choose servants for their novelty value. Mr. Pinkerton had been far more sensible. He, like them, had had certain standards.
Though there had been that darkie girl.
Snigger.
“A hkl.”
“A hkl.”
Their voices had become quieter now, a barely audible bottom-line whisper, the tiniest of tiny lettering — just above
Printed by Charles Gouvernear & Nephew, New York —
unfamiliar words that Mr. Brczin hardly ever heard in his empire of the shortsighted. His eyes filled with nostalgic tears. They were speaking familiar words of greeting from his long-lost homeland —
May your balalaika always be well polished! How brightly the tracks of the troika gleam in the light of the morning sun! —
words that he had not heard spoken for half a century, hearing them only in memory.
“Gracious!” Mrs. Albert Comstock effortlessly switched to English. Her voice rose, in the tone of someone fearlessly giving voice to universal truths that must not be denied utterance. You couldn’t stop her talking. You could never stop her talking. Mrs. Albert Comstock said what had to be said. “My word! If I might be permitted! Darkie!”
“Whatdoyoumacallit?” Mrs. Goodchild agreed. “Thingamajig! Whatsit? Darkie!” (Mrs. Goodchild varied her exclamation points with the occasional question mark.)
Sometimes they appeared to spend entire afternoons of conversation in employing no other words but these, bound by the rules of some strict order. You could rely on Mrs. Albert Comstock and Mrs. Goodchild for intellectual stimulation.
There was no sound from Mama’s or Ben’s rooms.
This afternoon, her brother would be leaving for Japan.
12
She looked down the long final flight of stairs into the hall, and saw Annie, the little servant girl she had last seen twenty-five years ago.
These things happened without any warning.
Mrs. Alexander Diddecott talked with the dead every Tuesday at a house in Harlem, from seven to eight-thirty, her dead restricted to a certain place, and to certain hours, as if they lived in a museum. Alice seemed to see them at all times, and in all places. The memories were vivid, happening in front of her for the first time. Contrariwise, when real things happened they sometimes felt like something being remembered, a memory of something once read a long time ago, not as if they were happening for the first time then. As she drew nearer, she recognized the moment she was remembering. She had been ten years old. It was nothing special, and yet she had remembered it, as she remembered — with Emily Dickinson — a certain slant of light, or a tree against the sky, looking down at her feet on a beach, a red parasol.
She was not aware of Annie at first.
It was a summer morning, very early, and the hall was suffused by a red glow. In the evening it was green, blue, an underwater color. The hall was tiled, and sounds were sharper there — the heels of boots and the tips of umbrellas and walking sticks click-clicked, dresses swished and hissed, beaded braiding rattled like dogs’ claws — echoes close, enclosed. There were patterns on the tiles. No one
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